Broken Threads
by Targaryen Muse
Summary: Dev forsook all magic, once, and has kept his word solemnly. The reasons lie amongst the bones and lies of the past -a past he never thought he'd have to return to. Broken threads can be rewound again, but chaos spins a thousand possible outcomes.
1. Prologue

**A/N** Disclaimer –I don't own things that aren't mine. All characters that aren't someone else's are mine…aka most characters. I don't pay attention to all those stupid things happening to FR, so I've set this story in the good old days when everything was nice and normal.

_Prologue_

The explosion ripped through the cathedral roof like a fiery serpent ripping through grey brick. Priceless, ancient rose glass windows shattered as if in a giant's hand, and the magnificent chandelier of solid gold and a thousand candles dropped to the floor, shattering upon unyielding stone benches with a tortured groan. The sheer concussive blast of the impact lifted each and every devotee in Helm's church up bodily, and flung them against the far walls. Only by a quick spell did the tiefling cleric leading prayer stay on his feet.

Sunlight glared balefully at the musty interior of Helm's cathedral. As Father Isieron watched, mouth agape, a thick, hempen rope slithered down from the hole, uncoiling rapidly, landing silently atop the chandelier's remnants. A dark form slid down it with great alacrity, rolling away into dust and smoke the moment it struck the ground. Close behind that form levitated a sinister pair: a shabbily robed man clutching a staff, and a woman in a black cloak holding two flashing short swords.

Five blue bolts darted from the mage's staff, but Father Isieron was no fool; he thundered out a mighty prayer to Helm, and the five bolts sank deep into his priestly garments…doing no harm to the tiefling's body.

Laughing with the grim certainty of a justicar, Isieron ripped off his white robes, revealing the gleaming silver plate sheathing him from neck to toe, and the obviously enchanted bastard sword at his hip. He drew the weapon with a gauntleted hand, and it flared with the holy white energy of goodness and justice.

The mage and woman settled down upon the floor, dust swirling about their boots. Isieron pointed his brand at them, retribution promised in his red eyes, when a cough interrupted him. The priest looked to the side; the first form had somehow managed to sneak to his side, and now stood like a shadow next to Helm's sacred altar. His black garb was patched and worn, as was his grey cloak.

"Get the thing," said the shadow in a hoarse, rasping voice. As he stepped closer, Isieron saw why –his throat had once been cut, the scar stretching out across a '3' tattooed in black on the right of his jugular. It wasn't the only scar –the man's dark, lean face had been thoroughly wounded by battle. One deep gouge had torn a veritable trench down the left of his face. Beneath locks of brown hair, the priest saw the bottom of the man's left ear torn away. Isieron knew at first sight that the attacker had never had those looked at by a healer.

The man stepped closer and closer, right hand wrapped around the hilt of a worn, stained bastard sword and dragging it clear of its scabbard on his back. The blade was ugly, notched, and pitted…but the edge gleamed with razor-sharpness. "I'll have _him_."  
"You've got it backwards," said the tiefling with certainty, brushing his red hair back past his twisting black horns. "_Helm_ will have _you_."

The man only laughed, and rushed forward, both hands on his sword. The blades met with an almost unearthly ring. Helm's brilliant weapon slashed and danced circles and windmills about the man. But the fighter stalked Isieron in a circle, meeting each measured attack with a sturdy parry.

Isieron pushed his attacker away, muttering a prayer to Helm. A pillar of flame smashed down upon the man, and he turned his attention to the other pair. They'd gone to the altar, digging frantically through holy artifacts. Roaring in rage, Isieron was about to call on his power again, to smite the two infidels, when a sudden impact from behind nearly flung him from his feet. Only sturdy, enchanted plate saved his life.

Staggering, the tiefling whirled, blade up. His attacker raised his own sword, cloak barely singed from Isieron's attack, but he was otherwise unharmed. The only fires on him were those smoldering in his pale grey eyes.

_What –how did he survive?_ But Isieron had no time to wonder; they were back to their deadly dance, only this time, the cleric's attacker led. Each overhanded chop drove Isieron back a step; each brutal backhand forced his parries closer and closer to his body.

Binding their blades for an instant, Isieron whispered a quick spell, and sudden strength flowed through his Helm-blessed arms. The tiefling stole the initiative, driving forward with a series of controlled but concussive slashes. His attacker gave ground freely, parrying what he could. And then, _he_ stole the offense _back_. Isieron's knees almost buckled under the force of a sudden and hard riposte. _What magic does this bastard have?_

"Let's _go_!" the woman shouted, but the fighter kept pressing Father Isieron. And none of his Helm-taught arts of war could save him. Hate in his eyes, the scarred warrior drove Isieron farther and farther back. Wielding the bastard sword in two hands with the economy of a butcher and the force of an orc warlord, the attacker bent Isieron's arms so far back in an awkward parry that the Helm-touched blade fell from the priest's hands. The cleric tripped as he stumbled back, rushing back helplessly to the ground. Stone met his head with a sharp crack. As the world faded away, he saw the scarred warrior watch him with those odd grey eyes, and finally turn his back.

**3**

"You should've killed him," groused Lis as she raised the frothing mug to her lips. She glared daggers at Dev with piercing green eyes, pulling a few strands of black hair over her barely pointed ears. Besides her, the mage Alam tugged at his threadbare brown robes, but Dev knew that he agreed with his wife.

A rowdy brawl was already raging behind the trio's table, but none of them paid any attention to such madness. They'd had enough fighting for the day.

Dev just shook his head, pale eyes staring away into space. "He wasn't armed," he said in his rasping voice. "No point."

"He knows us," said Alam glumly. "We'll have to move towns. Again."

Dev raised his silvery gaze to meet Alam's black one. The dusky mage did not relent under his friend's baleful stare; he'd spent far too many summers with Dev, and knew the strange man's moods. Finally, the fighter muttered, "You want to go back, then?"

Alam relaxed, chuckling. "Not quite."

"He wasn't _armed_, damn it."

Lis rolled her eyes, and sighed. "Dev, one of these days, you're going to have to realize that we're _not_ Third Company anymore."

Dev looked into his full cup, and pushed it away. As he always did. "I know."

"They're all dead, Dev; we're the only ones now, and we can't have the same honor cod-"

"Damn it, I _know_," he snarled, standing violently. The tavern activities raged on, completely ignoring his violent outburst. It made sense; Dev was of average height, and compact. He didn't quite draw all eyes when he walked into a room. "I'm going up. I've had enough for one night."

Alam half-rose. "Look, Dev, I'm-"

"Go dance with your wife, war wizard. I'm…I'm tired." Of what, he didn't specify. The fighter ignored the protests of his friends, and trudged slowly up a rickety path of stairs. In his room, the fighter sank down on the straw bed, fingers absently touching the badly healed wound at his neck. Their tips traced across the '3' on his throat. _A mark of pride, a badge of honor. They thought the Third met its end at Korablin's Gulch…gods, if I was to go back, I'd be hailed a hero, a survivor, be the symbol of a nation…_

Precisely why Dev didn't go back. He didn't want to be a symbol anymore.

_Marshal Crome kept me close to him; me and Em. His two pet prides. Devoid and Empty, the _real_ fighters, best in the army and not a drop of magic ever found on them. Real soldiers, real symbols, not like the war wizards and the uppity mages; men that the everyday soldier could relate to, men that could be seen as realistic goals. But Crome, you crusty bastard, you never told them the whole story, did you? And when Em died, right next to Reel and Tunnels, and the rest of our little Old Guard, you didn't bother to tell them that either, did you? Because we were the indestructible, the symbols, the immortal images of the war effort. And immortals can't afford to die-_

Devoid slowly unbuckled his old, trusty bastard sword and slid it off his back. It collapsed onto the bed with a soft plop, sounding as tired as the former soldier felt. _Third Company, under the honorable Marshal Crome, best in the world, come and see, come one come all…Marshal Crome will show you a thing or two about war, and so will Captain Em, and Captain Dev, and Lieutenant Stone…_

He almost drifted off into dreams, feeling the wounds all across his body throb, those old marks that only increased the toll life had taken on him. _They think I do it for the show? They think I'm trying to be popular? What do _they_ know, the bastards…_

"Nothing, obviously," she said, and Dev jerked up in the bed, sword already coming out.

The woman in the blue and red dress chuckled. "My, but you're quick." She twirled a curly strand of red hair in one carefully manicured finger, but Dev wasn't fooled by the airy disguise –she had a blade on her, and knew how to use it. He could read her like a holy book.

"Get out," he said, pointing his battered blade at her.

She pouted. "And miss meeting the famed Captain Devoid, war-hero and martyr? _Alive_? Methinks…not."

"_Captain_ Dev died right alongside Stone and Crome," said Dev. "No; he died before that, throat cut out by the Chained Warlord's greatsword." _Because he couldn't bear Em's death, because he rushed in like a fool…_

"And he recovered from such a gruesome wound…without magic?" She sounded almost playful.

"I don't _do_ magic," said Dev, lips peeling back in a warning snarl. "Now get _out_."

"Come _on_. Hear me out, already. I know you want to; I can read your mind, of course."

"Of course. That's not going to save you from my-sword-in-your-brain."

"Oh, don't try it, _please_. I'd hate to put an end to the last of Third Company."

"Not the last," he said.

"Actually you're right," she said, pleased. "But I'm not talking about those two souls downstairs." She sighed. "Captain Dev, master of his body, lord of war…reduced to mercenary work? Raiding temples of Helm on Mask's payroll?"

"I survive," he muttered, but couldn't meet her gaze.

"But you're not alive," she said sharply. "You're right; Captain Dev died. But I want to bring him back."

_Why? How?_ _Who _are_ you, anyway, to come in here and start talking about my past?_ But all Dev said was, "You said there was another. Alive."

She smiled. "Come on. There's a lot we have to talk about, Dev. There's a problem to the east, back near your home. Warlords on the march, and all."

"Warlords are always on the march, woman."

"Yes…but they've rarely been led by the genius of the revered Third."

Dev frowned, lowering his sword. _What?_ And then, his pale eyes widened. "_Crome_?"

The woman smiled. "I said there were others of Third Company in this world. But I never said they were alive." And then she took his hand, and the world shuddered.


	2. Returning to the Loom

**Chapter One **_Returning to the Loom_

The tavern's door burst open, and six pale shadows slipped in from the night. All movement simply…ceased. The door slammed shut, the sound racking the silence.

Isieron lowered the hood of his white cloak, red eyes sweeping patrons along the bar without a shred of mercy in them. _Drunkards and wretches. I should've known the thieves would return to a place like this._ The priest of Helm strode forward determinedly, his smooth, liquid movements silenced by the magic of his plate. His escort followed with an equal measure of tranquility, slipping into formation behind him.

There was no one in the common room, not even any invisible presences. "Search the rooms upstairs," he said in his ringing, commanding baritone, and the shadows obeyed wordlessly.

"Get back, demon!" yelled a bearlike fellow, dried drink crusted over his stubble. With a wild yell, the brawler lunged at the priest.

Isieron brought up his gauntleted left hand and smashed his metal fist into man's face. The sop's pulped features were splayed with blood as he toppled backwards, unconscious.

_I shouldn't have done that,_ thought Isieron briefly, shaking the red off his pristine armor. _It wasn't…just_. But that cry…_"demon!"..._

It brought back too many memories, too much pain, too much…

_No! That was _back then_. This is now. Stop thinking, damn it, and concentrate…find the desecrators. Find the thieves. And then, then you can vent your rage all you want…_

"I am a holy vassal of Helm," said Isieron, baring his demonically sharp teeth, which stood out in his face even more as he tied back his long red hair, revealing every inch of the skin stretched over the bones of his face. The patrons shrank back before his infernal visage. With a ringing metallic screech, the cleric drew his blazing blade.

"All who doubt my honor…step forward." Unsurprisingly, none did. "I seek a trio of thieves. Divine guidance has told me that they are here. Reveal them, if you know where they are." He set about describing him. But no one responded; they were either to drunk to care…or obstructers of justice.

The shadows returned; one of them held a dirty pack. "We found this," she murmured. "Travel pack. If they fled, they didn't take their belongings with them."  
"The artifact?" said Isieron, and his fellow Helmite rent the pack in two, dumping its contents on the floor.

_There!_ A single statue, of a knight holding an upraised sword, stood out amongst bars of food, rope, and other mundane things. He picked it up with his free hand; he could feel the holy power infused in it. His red eyes narrowed; if they'd fled, why hadn't they taken the statue with them? Surely, they knew what it was _worth…_the secret magic contained within was rare and powerful; Isieron himself had trouble using it.

"Make safe the statue," he ordered his shadows, sheathing his unblooded sword. _I have to find these strange thieves. There will be answers there with them. _

_And a reckoning._

**3**

"What the hell?" rasped Dev irritably, staring around the small, bare room. He tapped a finger against the dark grey walls. _Adamantine. I'd know that feeling anywhere. _Crome's sword and armor, and Em's weapons, had been forged from the impossibly hard material. _Strong. And expensive_. And it had been magically enhanced –a strange glow emanated from the stone, providing the light in the room. "Where is this?"

Alam's voice cut through the former Captain's thoughts. "It's extradimensional." Dev whirled –the mage and his wife were standing behind him, completely bewildered. Alam's staff was humming with magical power, and Lis' hands were locked across the hilts of her blades. "I can taste it."

"Oh, calm _down_," said the woman at Dev's side.

Dev noticed a giant of a man in a green cloak draped over brown hides, leathers, and a bandolier of knives standing behind his two comrades. His arms were tightly corded, and too large in proportion to his body –perfect for wielding the two huge swords strapped to his back. The giant ran a hand over his shining bald pate, and nodded at the woman.

Lis inched away from the man. "Dev?" she said questioningly. _All these years, and I'm still the Captain, the leader. _

"Not yet," said Dev. He glanced down at his right hand; his sword was still drawn. _If she'd wanted to kill me, she could've done so at the tavern. A mage with power enough to transport me to another dimension-_

"I'm no mage," said the woman, chuckling.

Rage reared in Dev's heart like a dragon, and it flashed angrily in his eyes. _She can read my mind. The insolent-_

His scarred lips tightened, and with sudden, iron will, the fighter rammed his mental strength against hers. _Get OUT!_

She stumbled back, physically, eyes wide, but recovered her posture extremely quickly. And Dev knew that there was nothing in his head but the ghosts of his past.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" said the woman. She sounded more curious than offended.

"When you live without magic, you learn to do things. Or you die." Dev considered his sword, sheathed it, and folded his arms across his chest. "Now. Names."

"Fair enough," she said, with a mocking curtsey. "Well met, Captain Dev. I'm Dare, mind mage of Loke's Thieves Guild. The mountain of muscle there's called, for obvious reasons, Rockarm. Loke's enforcer."

Dev nodded slowly. _She's a psion. And considering that the giant over there managed to bring Lis and Alam along for the ride, he's got a power of his own, besides those blades. She's fit; I'd guess her to be more than just a mind mage. I've seen assassins with less grace than her movements. Damn, but they're a dangerous pair._ "So…a pair of mental giants from the local thieves guild want us to go back home and fight."

"What?" growled Alam. "Is _that_ what this is about?"

"What happened to you? How'd you get here?" said Dev.

Lis shrugged. "I don't know. We were talking about _you_. And then _this_ ugly bastard walks up behind us, puts a hand on out shoulders, and we're standing here."

"You're psions both," accused Dev. "Start answering." His right hand clenched, and one didn't need to be a mind reader to figure out the unspoken part of his statement.

"I wouldn't start swinging," said Dare lightly. "How do you plan to get out of here if we're dead?"

Dev sneered. "Alam!"

The war wizard smiled thinly, and raised his staff. "Just say the word."

"A war wizard must be skilled in transport," said Dev. "Getting troops from here to there requires skill in magery." _Me, I prefer horses. Leading the distractions, the suicide attacks that gave Crome the time to sneak in his soldiers with magic and outflank our enemies._ _"_But I'm sure you know all about that, seeing how you seem so aware of our military past."

Dare raised her hands. "Let's just forget that. We're not here to fight you."

"Will you just start _talking_?"

"I've told you a bit already, you know. Tempted to help?"

"I'm tempted to shove my sword into your stomach, now _tell me what I want to know._ What's happening back home? And why do you even care? And why…why us?" _Why me, actually._

Alam lowered his staff, and chuckled. "This should be good," he muttered darkly.

Dare twisted a loop of hair around her finger, tugging on it. "It's…not really very simple. But you need a history lesson. Loke's fought long and hard to carve out a foothold in this part of the world. We're not just part of this city; our organization is a web that spans _leagues _upon _leagues_. We even have island storage houses-"

"There'd better be a point," warned Dev.

"There is. An organization of our size doesn't exist without attracting competitors. We've been warring against other guilds for…well, for a long time. In any case, we…kind of…"

"Screwed up," said Rockarm in a surprisingly light voice. Dev's pale eyes turned and met his dark ones. "We needed help, fighting against a coalition of enemy guilds. They'd turned a boneyard into a necromantic party. Made ghouls and ghasts out of every single poor bastard buried in the 'yard. There were so many…too many. It would've been too costly to hire an equal amount of necromancers to shut them all down, or destroy them with conventional means. So…"

Dare laughed shakily. "It was my idea to get a necromancer. Oh, we could've destroyed the undead, yes, but _turning _them to our control…a priest might've done, but a necromancer would've been better. They specialize in these things."

And then, Dev knew. His mouth dropped open. "You bastards," he whispered, stunned. _You arrogant bastards, you thought you could control him. You thought that he was broken forever. Oh, damn you to the lowest layer of the Abyss, but he was locked in that chamber for a reason! I couldn't kill him, he was too much of a power, destroying his body, yes, it was the best I could do. And then we imprisoned him, Reel and I; we were the last ones standing. Besides Crome, of course. Blood of the gods, but you couldn't have-_

"We're psions," said Dare, laughing nervously. "Magical wards…they're meaningless to me. I'll break through them with my mind while sleepwalking. All of Mage Commander Reel's wards were simply nothing. He didn't design them for a psion." _He didn't have time, damn it, his guts had been gripped in the cold, shackled hands of the Chained Warlord and ripped straight out!_

Dev was almost physically choked with anger, and his voice was nothing but a hoarse echo, carrying through the adamantine refuge. "I beat him," he said. "I crushed him to a bloody pulp, broke all of his power, but I couldn't kill him. No one could. The imprisonment spell was supposed to hold, but _no_, you just had to go for _him_…" _And they question why I hate these unnatural powers?! They call _me _the madman?!_

"We freed The Puppet Master with full intent of controlling him!" shouted Dare, reddening. "I thought we could-"

"_You_ thought. You, the expert? Damn you and your _thoughts_, but you were _wrong_, weren't you?"

She looked away, tearing her gaze from his war worn face. "He…he was stronger than I thought. He'd had years and years to recover; and just as magic had little defense me, I had little defense against magic."

Dev laughed harshly, sitting on the cold floor. Bewilderment floated through him. _People are still…so stupid._ Dare was still talking, something about how The Puppet Master had decimated both their guilds, but Dev was back in his past. _So you're back, old friend? Wandering the world, jerking the strings of us mere mortals? You think you can just waltz back as if nothing's happened? Create more of your brain-dead Chained Warlords, unleash their skill honed in idiocy upon the world? I'll put you right where you belong, Puppet Master; I'll hunt down your very _soul_…if you have one._

"So?" said Dare, looking at Dev nervously.

He shook his head slowly. "You're all the same. Those with 'power' and 'gifts.' You think you can just…_shape_ the world, and when things go wrong, you want someone _else_ to fix it."

"You did it before, Dev," she said.

He laughed. "And I had Em at my side, and Stone. I don't care how strong you think your friend is, Stone was better. And _he…_well, he and Em and I, we weren't…you couldn't stop us. Not with magic, not with force. And I had Reel, and Tunnels. Good old Tunnels and his alchemy and his bombs. But the Puppet Master had his own allies; I'm sure you have stories of the Chained Warlord in your heads. It wasn't _that_ long ago." He stretched, standing up. "Problem is, even though I killed the Chained Warlord, the Puppet Master can make another. He's powerful enough. But I can't have another Em, another Reel, another Stone, another Tunnels." Dev glanced back at his comrades. _All I have is a mage who was sick on the day of Korablin's Gulch, and a forward scout who I suspect played dead at the start of it all. Blood of the gods, but you want me to go back against he Puppet Master with _them_…?_

"He couldn't make a Chained Warlord!" said Dare. "He's not that strong yet. His imprisonment and corporal destruction sapped some of the energy from him."

"He blew Em to bits with a wave of his finger!" rasped Dev. "He could make _armies_ of the dead with merely a hand! You're telling me he _lost all that power_?"

Dare was silent. Rockarm chuckled morbidly. "Not quite," he said. "He still had necromantic energy surrounding him, built up over the years, but it was energy he couldn't have used before, thanks to Reel's wards.

"When he fled our slippery clutches, we followed him, racing to Korablin's Gulch. But we didn't make it in time. Even if we had…it wouldn't have mattered."

_No. No, he couldn't have…_

Dare picked up the tale. "I'm sorry, Dev. But it's true. You know that many of the Third's bodies were never found; not those under the avalanche." _Of course. I remember so well. It was my idea, actually. Putting the rest of Tunnel's alchemy under the rocks, and blowing up the other army. But Crome, you bastard, you deployed too early. _I _was in charge there, not you, why'd you give the order-?"_

"He raised them," said Dev tonelessly.

"He raised them," said Dare. "And Dev; Marhsal Crome, his body-"

"Wasn't found."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be." Dev laughed; it was an eerie noise. "Oh, gods, you _should_ be. Do you know what you've done? Do you have any _idea_?" _And this was for a Thieves Guild._ He kept laughing until his stomach and throat ached. _Oh, you're all so unbearably _stupid_…_

Dare shot a glance at Rocharm. "Crome's body rose along with something around four hundred twenty or thirty of Third Company. But Crome's unchained, completely. The Puppet Master doesn't control him. Not yet. But death has a corrupting aura about it. He's on the march, Dev. With his army. Blighting everything in his path. A black stain across the face of Faerun…"

Dev was silent for a moment, running a hand over his weathered face. "And Puppet Master?"

Dare shook her head helplessly. "No idea."

Dev laughed hollowly. "No idea." His ghostly eyes had a haunted look about him. "I labored…so long, to bring that creature to the point of death. And now, he's loose. And you have no idea where…"

"We screwed up!" said Rockarm. "Humans do."

"_Mages_ do," growled Dev, rather loud for a man with a slit throat. "Your manipulation, your _unnatural_ manipulation…look at what it brings. Just look."

Rockarm stared to respond hotly, but Dare shot him a look, and he fell quiet. "Dev, the point is…we need your help. Loke's Guild is exhausted; we've lost everything between the Puppet Master venture and our feuds with a thousand other Guilds."

"Call out the armies. Of a hundred nations, if be-"

"And be executed for this crime? No. We needed someone, Devoid. Someone like _you_."

"You've done it before," added Rockarm. "Everyone knows that. You can do it again…"

_It's not that simple._ But Dev looked at the tattered threads of his life. _What am I? A mercenary? Raiding temples of a god I once looked up to? For what, money? So I can survive? I don't want to do this, though. I don't want to go back. It's…_

_What. Scary?_

_Yeah. Scary, Dev. It's scary._

_Screw your fright. The Puppet Master…and Crome. Crome, with all his genius. Oh, he can be stopped by armies, yes, but with Crome leading four hundred some undead and the Puppet Master nearby…no. That…that can't be allowed._

"Dev?" prompted Dare gently, kneeling before him. "Dev, I'm…I'm b-"

"Get up," he rasped, gripping her arm and hauling her up. "We'll need supplies. And we'll need to get out of here."

Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed the word _We?_

Dev laughed grimly, and his pale eyes looked past adamantine walls, into his past.

The loom was spinning, weaving again.


End file.
